


Marked

by BonitaBreezy



Series: A Taste of Your Blood in my Mouth [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Complete, Get Together, M/M, Marking, Vampire AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:36:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonitaBreezy/pseuds/BonitaBreezy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil wants nothing more than to Mark Clint's throat and claim him as his own.  When someone else dares to leave a mark, Phil doesn't take it well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kisleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisleth/gifts).



> Written in like two hours for kisleth, who wanted a possessive vampire Phil. Totally unbeta'd, I apologize for that.

Phil Coulson’s status as a “Creature of the Night” (a title that he found quite offensive) was SHIELD’s worst-kept secret.  After far too many centuries of life and multiple injuries that would have been fatal to a human being, he’d admittedly gotten rather reckless about keeping it hidden.  He had a bad habit of throwing himself into danger with little to no regard for his own safety, particularly when it concerned protecting the people he worked with.  Logically, it was much more likely that Phil would survive than the squishy humans, and so far he had.  There probably wasn’t a single agent above level five that hadn’t seen Phil take a fatal shot to the head or chest and then just get right back up again, cursing in annoyance about blood or bullet holes in his clothing.  

It was inconvenient sure, particularly because a fatal shot always put him out of commission for at least a minute, but he would rather be out for a minute than have one of his agents be dead permanently.  He certainly wasn’t going to save them by passing on his vampirism, which, according to SHIELD scientists, was basically a disease that kept all of his organs in a state of stasis, just as they had been the instant before he died.  He didn’t think that forcing someone to live with half their brain or other vital organs blown out was particularly merciful.  Besides, he really didn’t want a bunch of little fledglings to deal with.  He had enough on his plate, thank you very much.

The point was, Phil wasn’t living the covert back alley life depicted in vampire mass media.  He wasn’t a blood thirsty animal, he didn’t have to haunt back alleys looking for his next meal, he wasn’t a soulless monster, or a brooding pretty face who wanted to atone.  Honestly, he was just a man.  A very, very old man whose main source of food was blood, sure, but he had friends and worked alongside humans who knew exactly what he was and what he was capable of.  He was stronger than a human, but when he had sparred with Steve Rogers after he’d been administered the super soldier serum in 1942, he’d obviously been physically weaker.  He didn’t age, but he hadn’t turned into something supernaturally beautiful either.  He’d done bad things, but everyone at SHIELD had.  It was just part of the job.  So, while Phil’s “disease” was common knowledge, no one at SHIELD really seemed to care.  It was refreshing and freeing, and he was glad to have found a place where he fit in so seamlessly.

Of course, like all things, SHIELD did have one thing that he found quite problematic, and that was Clint Barton.  Clint was an amazing marksman, snarky as hell, and too gorgeous and wonderful for words.  Phil prided himself on how well he controlled his more base instincts, but something about Clint Barton pressed insistently at the edges of his control.  He didn’t want to eat Clint or turn him, of course, and Clint had never indicated that he wanted to be turned anyway, but every time he saw the man he had to stamp down harshly on the desire to bite him and mark him.  All of his instincts screamed at him to clamp his teeth around Clint’s jugular to stake his claim and warn off others.  It wasn’t about harming Clint, not at all, but rather about making sure that the whole world knew that he was under Phil’s protection and that he belonged to Phil and Phil alone.  Which was the problem.  Because Clint didn’t belong to Phil.  He was an agent under Phil’s command, and arguably Phil’s best friend, but their relationship had never been more than a friendly one, despite how much Phil wanted it.  Clint had never indicated that he wanted to change their relationship to a more intimate one, and Phil didn’t dare try to initiate something himself for fear of abusing his position of power.

As far as problems went, it was a relatively small one, and Phil had spent the past fifteen years ignoring the urge to inappropriately proposition Clint or sink his teeth into Clint’s neck.  It had almost become second nature, and he never let it interfere with their relationship, personal or working.  Clint knew that he could depend on Phil to have his back, and that was good enough.  He treasured Clint Barton’s hard-earned trust more than anything on Earth.

It was why he had no problem getting between Clint and an unhinged Hydra member with an axe, even though that was exactly the type of weapon that would be excellent at killing him for real.  Everything had gone to shit, of course, because the missions that were supposed to be easy always did that.  They’d lost contact with Natasha, who had been infiltrating the base, and after half an hour of radio silence, Clint had decided to go in after her.  Phil had followed rather than being left outside to wait and worry, and they’d been caught by patrol and, apparently, Hydra’s resident psycho.  It had gone rather badly from there, and now Phil was gasping awake on the floor as his throat knit itself back together from the vicious axe wound.

“I could see your spine,” Natasha informed him from her crouched position above him. “He almost took your head off.”

“Well, it’s a good thing he didn’t, because I wouldn’t have woken up from that,” Phil said when his throat had repaired enough that he could talk again.  He tried not to let the knowledge of how close he had come to real, permanent death bother him.  It would have been worth it, anyway, because that axe had been swinging towards Clint before Phil had put himself in the way.

“Where’s Clint?”

“I don’t know,” Natasha said. “By the time I showed up you were down, axe guy had an arrow in his throat, and Clint was gone.  Why did you come in?”

“You know the answer to that,” Phil told her, and she shrugged in that way that she had that said she knew, but she didn’t really understand.

“We have to find Clint,” she said, and Phil just nodded, wincing when the motion forced a fresh wave of blood to spill down his front.  With all the blood loss and the large wound he’d just healed, he knew that he’d need to eat soon, and he had a pretty good idea of where he could get his next meal.

It didn’t take long to find Clint.  He hadn’t been taken very far, and his interrogator seemed to think that yelling his questions made him seem more threatening.  They could hear him through the closed door, demanding to know who Clint worked for.  Clint’s response was no doubt sarcastic and snarky, but they couldn’t actually hear it.  They did, however, hear the interrogator give the command to “string him up”, and Phil made the decision to kick the door in and deal with the consequences as they came.  Natasha seemed to agree with him, as she was already shooting before the door swung all the way open.  

He let her deal with the cronies and set his eyes on the man next to the winch wheel that was attached to the noose around Clint’s neck.  He was hanging from the noose a few inches off the ground, his face going purple from lack of air, but doing his best to stay as still as possible to avoid breaking his own neck with his thrashing.  Phil didn’t bother with his gun, just propelled himself across the room in a fit of rage.  He used one hand to grab the man around the throat and the other to release the wheel, sending Clint crashing to the floor.  He’d feel badly about it later, but for now it was enough to know he wouldn’t suffocate.  He crushed the man’s throat under his hand and let him drop to the ground before turning his attention on the interrogator, who didn’t seem to have had enough time to truly understand what had happened.

Phil advanced on him, aware of nothing except the man he’d chosen as his prey.  He didn’t often eat straight from the source, but he found he was rather looking forward to it now.  He ran his tongue over his blunt human teeth and then extended his fangs, just to see the look of terror on the man’s face.  It was easy to rip the man’s throat out and drink deeply.  There was nothing like warm, fresh blood directly from the vein, if he was being honest.  Phil drank until he was stuffed full, and then let the body unceremoniously drop to the floor.

When he came back to himself, pushing the primitive part of his brain to the background, he saw that Natasha was kneeling on the floor in front of Clint her hands framing his face, talking him down from the panic of having nearly died.  Phil wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his already ruined jacket before he approached them.

“Hey boss,” Clint greeted, his voice hoarse. “Good to see you.  I wasn’t sure if you were…you know.  More dead than usual.”

“He didn’t cut all the way through,” Phil said reassuringly, even though that was pretty obvious by the way he was walking and talking. “Are you okay?”

“Oh yeah,” Clint said, waving off Phil’s question with his bound hands like it was ridiculous. “Might have destroyed some brain cells, but other than that I’m totally good.  Although getting the noose off might make me feel a bit better.”

“Of course,” Phil said quickly, reaching out to loosen the knot.  He had to hold back an animalistic growl when he got the rope over Clint’s head, because around his neck was a purple and red impression of bruises where the rope had tightened around his throat.  He wanted to rage, and kill those Hydra goons all over again for having the nerve to dare to mark what was _his_.

The fury must have shown on his face, because Clint grimaced at him. “I’m okay, Phil,” he said, because of course he thought that was why Phil was angry.  If Phil was a good friend, he would be angrier at the idea that they’d almost killed his friend than the fact that they had bruised the man that Phil had unfairly claimed as his.  The realization of what those marks meant struck Phil.  Clint could have died, and he was angry that someone else had marked what wasn’t even his.  That realization helped jolt his brain back to the more human thought processes, and he tried to ignore the vibrant bruises and focus his brain on the important things, like getting the information they needed and getting the hell out of there.  Natasha seemed to know what he was thinking, because she retrieved a flash drive from one of her many hidden pockets and held it up for him to see.

“I got what we needed,” she said. “We should go, but I think he might need help.”

“No, I’m fine,” Clint insisted, staggering to his feet.  Once he was up, he seemed pretty steady, and he retrieved his bow and quiver from where they’d been dumped by the Hydra goons. “Let’s go.”

* * *

 

Their escape from the Hydra base and their extraction had gone very smoothly, especially in comparison to the clusterfuck that the mission had been.  They’d gotten back to base, Clint had gone to medical and everything had wrapped up rather neatly.  It had been a week since then, and the marks on Clint’s neck were still very obvious and visible.  Phil had to put a lot of effort into avoiding staring at Clint’s neck, which meant he pretty much had to avoid looking at Clint at all.  Every time his eyes settled on Clint, they inevitably drifted down to the marks on his throat, and a jealous rage would fill him, so it was better if he just avoided looking at all.  Natasha kept sending him those knowing looks, like somehow she knew exactly what was on his mind.  He hated those looks.

He was heading towards the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee when Clint grabbed him by the arm and steered him forcefully into a nearby broom closet.

“Um,” Phil said eloquently when Clint flipped the lock on the door.  The closet was small and left about two feet of space between them, and Phil was determinedly looking over Clint’s shoulder and focusing on the door behind him.

“What the hell is your problem?” Clint demanded, and Phil could see him cross his arms grumpily over his chest in his peripheral vision.

“I don’t…” he started, but Clint didn’t let him lie.

“Bull shit,” he interrupted. “You haven’t looked me in the eyes since that last mission, Phil.  What the hell?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Phil said, looking into Clint’s eyes as if to make a point, unable to help the way they flickered down to his neck almost immediately.  He forced his eyes away again, focusing back on the door.

“You’re doing it right now,” Clint said, sounding unamused. “You look at me and flinch and then you avoid looking at me entirely.  What did I do?” The question was a bit softer, a little more uncertain, and Phil felt a pang of guilt for making Clint feel like this was somehow his fault.

“You didn’t do anything,” Phil told him. “Everything is fine, I promise.”

“Then look at me,” Clint begged. “Phil, please.”

He couldn’t deny Clint’s pleas, and he looked away from the door again and back to Clint.  His eyes immediately flicked down to Clint’s neck, and then up to his face and then back down to his neck again.  It was ridiculous how he couldn’t manage to focus his eyes on Clint’s for more than a few seconds.  He usually had a much better poker face.  Clint noticed where Phil’s eyes kept straying, as if there was anyway not to, and his hand came up to touch the mark.

“It’s not your fault,” Clint said quietly, covering the stretch of bruises with his hand. “If you hadn’t taken that axe for me, I’d be dead.  I hope you’re not blaming yourself…”

“No,” Phil said, and his voice sounded hoarse. “It’s not that.  It’s...just forget it, okay?  It’s my own problem.”

“Well clearly it’s mine too, since you can’t even look at me,” Clint insisted stubbornly. “What is it?  Tell me.”

“It’s...it’s stupid, and it’s inappropriate and I’d really rather not,” Phil tried, but Clint wouldn’t be swayed.  His fingers stroked over the mark, and Phil wondered what it would be like to see Clint touching a mark that Phil had left on his neck, and his whole body shuddered at the mental image.  Clint’s fingers froze, and Phil realized he’d been staring intently at Clint’s neck for almost a full minute. He guiltily looked up and met Clint’s eyes, which were wide and surprised.

“You like it, don’t you?” he asked. “You like seeing my neck marked up.”

“No,” Phil spat angrily. “I hate it.  I hate that they marked you and hurt you.  That should be my mark!”  He realized what he said a second after he said it and he wished that he had room to step away from Clint.

“So…” Clint said. “You want to mark me?  What, like I belong to you?”

“I told you it was inappropriate,” Phil said, hating how tired and guilty he sounded. “I’ve harbored...feelings for you for quite some time, but I would never ever do anything you didn’t want, Clint, I swear.  Marking is very intimate and personal and I would never do that to you…”

“What if I wanted you to?” Clint interrupted, and Phil felt like he’d been hit by a truck.

“Um.  What?”

“What if I...what if I liked the idea of you marking me?” Clint asked, blood rushing to his cheeks. “You have to know that I’ve wanted you for years, Phil.  Nat said it was really obvious and that everyone knew that I’ve basically been in love with you since we met.”

“I...I did not know that,” Phil admitted. “But I...really?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, and he laughed awkwardly. “You’re like… you’re amazing.  You’re competent and smart and sexy as hell…”

Phil didn’t wait to hear the rest, just launched himself across the small gap between them and pressed his mouth to Clint’s hungrily.  Clint responded eagerly, pressing back hard enough to bruise and wrapping his arms around Phil’s body to hold him close.  When they pulled apart to breathe, Clint leaned his forehead against Phil’s and hugged him tightly.

“Mark me, Phil. Do it.  I’d much rather see your mark in the mirror than remember that stupid rope.”

“It’s permanent,” Phil explained, trying to ignore the excited thumping of his heart. “It’s would mark you as mine to any other of my kind that saw you.  You’d belong to me, Clint.”

“I want to,” Clint insisted, eyes looking a bit hazy with lust. “I want to belong to you and I want everyone to know it.  Please Phil.  Mark me.”

He wasn’t a strong enough man to say no.  He pressed a quick kiss to Clint’s mouth before letting his fangs extend into his mouth.  Clint was watching him with pink cheeks and glazed eyes.  He looked at Phil’s teeth, sharper and meant for ripping now, and he didn’t look afraid.  In fact, he leaned his head to the side a bit to create more room for Phil to maneuver, and Phil couldn’t help but grin widely.  Clint shuddered and whined, and Phil wondered how he’d never known that Clint had a fang fetish before.

“It’s going to hurt,” he warned.

“That’s okay,” Clint said quickly. “Just do it.”

So Phil did.  He struck quickly, locking his jaw over Clint’s jugular and sinking his fangs in.  Clint cursed and jerked a bit, but he didn’t try to get away, so Phil put Intention behind the bite, and suddenly it wasn’t a bite intended for eating at all, but a Mark.  He felt it like something settling in his chest and he knew that he’d done it.  He’d Marked Clint Barton.  He unclenched his teeth and pulled away, retracting his fangs.  He checked for blood, but the Mark was just two pale pinpricks from where his fangs had pierced the skin, healed over as if they’d scarred years ago.  It was subtle, but to Phil it was like a flashing neon sign, set right underneath the crude rope mark on the right side of Clint’s throat.

“Wow,” Clint murmured, and Phil hummed in agreement, leaning in and kissing the Mark just because he could.

“I think we just rushed headfirst into a very serious relationship.  Marking is practically marriage to my kind,” Phil said a few minutes later when his primal brain had settled down and his human brain catalogued what had just happened.

“Yeah,” Clint laughed. “If fifteen years is what you’d call rushing.”

“Fifteen years is the blink of an eye for me,” Phil told him, teasing.

“You don’t regret it, do you?” Clint asked, his smile faltering.

“No,” Phil answered honestly. "It feels right.  Perfect.”

“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “I can’t believe we just got vampire married in a closet.”

Phil glanced around at their surroundings and snorted. “I think that’s kind of typical, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, probably.  You want to ditch off for the rest of the day?” Clint rolled his hips against Phil’s, his hard length an obvious testament of what he wanted to do.

“Definitely,” Phil agreed, drawing Clint back into another kiss.

There would be a lot to sort out between them soon, but for now Phil was willing to just go with it.  He had what he’d wanted for so long, and for once he wasn’t going to question it until it all came apart.  

“Hey,” Clint said when they pulled apart. “I love you.”

Phil couldn’t stop the goofy smile that spread across his face at the admission. “Yeah, I love you, too.”

 


End file.
